The Ark tl-1

by Boyd Morrison

  Hayden tossed back the last of his drink and staggered out of the limo, his entourage following. Billy and J-man were on their cell phones, and Fitz handled the luggage. Three more cars pulled up behind carrying the gaggle of people that managed his career: agent, manager, PR person, personal trainer, nutritionist, and a dozen others. Traveling with such a large group made the plane a necessity, and the best part was that his contract required the studio to reimburse him for the operating costs during the trip.

  “Which bags do you want with you on the plane, Rex?” Fitz asked. “Or should they all go in the cargo hold?”

  Hayden didn’t need Fitz’s stupid questions right now. His hangover threatened to make him sick. He couldn’t do that out on the tarmac. Not in front of everyone. Man, he needed some caffeine.

  “Dammit, Fitz, what do I have you around for?” he said. “Maybe my brother was right about you. I’m sick of making every little decision for you. Just get it all on board.”

  Fitz nodded quickly, and Hayden saw the fear in his face. Good. Maybe next time he’d grow a pair and do his job.

  “Okay, you heard him,” Fitz said to the driver. “And make sure they all get on. Miss one, and you couldn’t get a job driving a hearse.”

  “Yes, sir,” the driver said meekly and started handing suitcases to the airport’s baggage handler.

  Hayden climbed the stairs and ordered Mandy, one of the flight attendants, to pour him a coffee. Billy, J-man, and Fitz quietly sat around him while the rest of the passengers took seats in the front section. Hayden sank into one of the lambskin recliners and watched the limo pull away. He pushed the button linking him to the cockpit.

  “George, let’s go.”

  “Aloha, Mr. Hayden,” the pilot said. “Looking forward to the islands?”

  “I’m not getting off the plane in Honolulu,” Hayden said, “so just cut that crap. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Mandy closed the door. The jet’s engines spooled up, and the 737 began to taxi toward the runway.

  The caffeine did the trick, and Hayden’s headache began to ease. Now that he was feeling better, he let his eyes settle on Mandy. He knew how he was going to use his private bedroom over the next 15 hours.

  * * *

  After exiting the executive terminal parking lot, Dan Cutter stopped the Hummer limo along the side of Sherman Way and threw the driver’s hat onto the passenger seat. He got out and popped the hood to make it look like he had engine problems. Then he sat in the driver’s seat and flipped on the radio scanner to listen to the control tower communicating with the taxiing 737.

  Getting the bag onto the plane had been even easier than he thought it was going to be. Cutter knew that Crestwood Limos was Hayden’s preferred company, so he had simply called to cancel the reservation and showed up himself.

  He knew those celebrity types. They didn’t pay any attention to the staff, never even asked for his name. They simply assumed he was their assigned driver and that all the bags would get on, so they didn’t see him put an extra one on with the others. When that little chump named Fitz had threatened him, Cutter had momentarily entertained the notion of snapping the pissant’s neck, just to show him how unimportant he really was. But then he remembered his mission. The faithful leader’s vision. Everything they had worked for the past three years. Getting the bag on the plane was far more important.

  It had been Cutter’s suggestion to test the device on Hayden’s plane. A long distance flight over water was exactly what they needed. The wreckage would be three miles deep, so the plane wouldn’t be recovered even if it were found. Plus, it had the added bonus of Hayden. He had been a thorn in their sides for months, bringing undue attention to the cause. And the press would go into a feeding frenzy when the plane of one of the world’s biggest stars crashed, providing the perfect distraction.

  Bringing the device onto a commercial airliner for the test would have been much riskier. As checked baggage, it would have been out of his control for most of the time, during which too many things could go wrong. The device could be discovered, or it could simply be left off the plane for some reason and put onto another plane. Not to mention that whoever traveled with the bag would have to go with it; for security reasons, airlines regularly removed bags when the passenger was not on board. With Hayden’s plane, Cutter had seen the bag go into the cargo hold himself, and now he could watch it take off, with him standing safely to the side.

  The tower gave permission for Hayden’s 737 to taxi to the runway. Right on time, as Cutter knew it would be. If it hadn’t, Hayden would have gone berserk. Guys like that thought the world revolved around them.

  Now was the time. He opened his cell phone and navigated the address book until he found the entry he had programmed in: New World. He pressed the green call button. After three rings, a click of the other phone answering. Then a series of three beeps told him the device in the belly of Hayden’s jet was activated. He hung up the phone and replaced it in his pocket.

  The 737 came to a stop at the end of the runway. On the scanner, Cutter listened for the tower to give permission to take off.

  “Flight N-348 Zulu, this is Burbank tower. Hold short of the active and await further clearance.”

  “Acknowledged, tower. What’s the problem?”

  “We’ve got a fuel spill on the runway. Leaking truck.”

  “How long? My boss isn’t going to like a long wait.”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “Should I head back to the ramp?”

  “Not yet. I’ll keep you informed.”

  “Gotcha.”

  Cutter stared at the idling 737 in horrified disbelief, kicking himself for activating the device before permission to take off was given. A lengthy delay could be a disaster. The weather was perfect, so he hadn’t anticipated a delay. Now that the device was active, there was no way to turn it off. It was already working. If the plane returned to the ramp, he would have to get the device back somehow. That would be extremely problematic, not to mention dangerous. It was already too lethal to interact with. As the plane sat there, he was helpless. So he did the only thing he could. He prayed.

  Cutter leaned on the wheel, his eyes shut tight, his hands clasped together, praying with all his heart that his mission would go on. God would not forsake him. His faith would overcome.

  His entire life, Cutter knew he was destined to serve a greater purpose, and he was willing to lay down his life to attain it, as all his brethren were. It was only after he left the Army, where he had gained the skills necessary to carry out God’s plan, that he learned what that greater purpose was, and he had pledged himself to it without reservation. The acts he had committed to ensure a better future might be seen as barbaric to those who did not believe, but his soul was pure. The end goal was all that mattered.

  Now that goal seemed as if it were in danger, but Cutter had no doubts. He was a fervent believer. His prayers would be answered.

  After 40 minutes of waiting, the miracle arrived. The radio squawked to life.

  “Flight N-348 Zulu, this is the tower. The fuel spill has been cleaned up. You are cleared for takeoff.”

  “Thank you, tower. You just saved my job.”

  “No problem, George. Enjoy Sydney.”

  Within two minutes, the jet roared down the runway. As he watched the 737 soar over the mountains and turn westward, Cutter closed the hood and got back in the Hummer. For the first time that day, he smiled.

  God was with him.

  THREE

  Wind whipped over the landing pad of the Scotia One oil platform, blowing the windsock steadily toward the east. Located 200 miles off the coast of Newfoundland, the Grand Banks were known for some of the world’s nastiest weather, but the 30 mile-per-hour winds and 15-foot seas hardly qualified as gale force. Just a typical day. Tyler Locke was curious to find out who was willing to brave the trip to meet with him.

  He leaned against the railing, searchi
ng for the Sikorsky transport helicopter due to arrive any minute. No sign of it. Locke zipped up his bomber jacket against the cold and inhaled the smell of salt spray and crude oil that permeated the rig.

  He’d had almost no downtime since he arrived on the platform six days ago, so the brief moment staring out at the vast Atlantic Ocean was a welcome rest. A few minutes were all he needed, and then he’d be recharged. He wasn’t the type who could lie in front of the TV all day watching movies. He loved immersing himself in a project, working nonstop until the problem was solved. His need to stay busy was a product of the work ethic his father had drilled into him. It was the one thing his wife, Karen, never could change about him. Next year, he always told her. Next year is the big vacation.

  He was lost in thought, the old regret rearing its ugly head, and he absently reached to fiddle with his wedding ring. Only when he felt bare skin did he glance down and remember that it was no longer there. He quickly pulled his hands apart and looked back up to see one of the landing control crewmen, a short, wiry man named Al Dietz, walking toward him. At six feet two inches tall and a solid build somewhere north of 200 pounds last time he checked, Locke towered over the diminutive rig worker.

  “Afternoon, Tyler,” Dietz said over the wind. “Come to see the chopper land?”

  “Hi, Al,” Locke said. “I’m expecting someone. Do you know if Dilara Kenner is aboard?”

  Dietz shook his head. “Sorry. All I know is that they have five passengers today. If you want, you can go wait inside, and I’ll bring her down to you when they get here.”

  “That’s okay. My last job was on a mine collapse in West Virginia. After a week of breathing coal dust, it could be forty below and I wouldn’t mind being out here. Besides, she was kind enough to make the flight to see me, so I’m returning the favor by meeting her here.”

  “You should see them in a minute. You know, if she didn’t make this flight, she’s in for a delay. We’re supposed to be socked in for at least 24 hours.” Dietz waved as he left to make preparations for the landing.

  Locke had heard the weather forecast, so he knew what Dietz meant. In the next hour, the wind was expected to die down and fog would roll in, making a landing impossible until it cleared. He saw the cloud formation approaching from the west, and just beneath it about five miles away, a yacht slowly motored past. White, at least 80 feet long. A beauty. Probably a Lurssen or a Westport. Why it would be in the middle of the Grand Banks, Locke couldn’t guess, but it wasn’t in any hurry.

  He also had no idea why an archaeologist was so impatient to meet with him that she was willing to fly out here. She’d repeatedly called Gordian’s headquarters over the last few days, and when Locke took a break from his work on the platform, he’d returned her call. All he could get out of her was that she was a professor at UCLA, and she had to see him right away.

  When he told her that he was going straight from Scotia One to a job in Norway, she’d insisted on seeing him before he left. The only way that would happen, he told her jokingly, would be if she took the two-hour flight out to the rig. To his surprise, she jumped at the chance and agreed to the trip, even willing to pay the exorbitant fee for the helicopter ride. When he asked why, all she would say over the phone was that it was a matter of life and death. She wouldn’t take no for an answer. It was just the kind of mysterious distraction that could spice up an otherwise routine assignment, so he finally relented and arranged for the rig’s manager to clear her for a visit.

  To be sure Dilara wasn’t yanking his chain, Locke checked her credentials out on UCLA’s web site and found the picture of a beautiful ebony-haired woman in her mid-thirties. She had high cheekbones, striking brown eyes, and an easy smile. Her photo gave Locke the impression of intelligence and competence. He made the mistake of showing it to Grant Westfield, his best friend and his current project’s electrical engineering expert. Grant had immediately made some less-than-gentlemanly suggestions as to why Locke should meet with her. Locke didn’t reply, but he had to admit her looks added to the intrigue.

  Dietz, who was now holding two flashlights equipped with glowing red traffic wands, moved to the edge of the landing pad near Locke. He pointed into the sky above the other side of the pad.

  “There it is,” Dietz said. “Right on time.”

  Against the gray backdrop of clouds, Locke saw a dot quickly growing in the distance. A moment later, he could hear the low throb of helicopter blades occasionally burst through the wind. The dot grew until it was recognizable as a 19-passenger Sikorsky, a workhorse of the Newfoundland oil fields.

  He was sure Dilara Kenner was on board. She had made it clear in their phone conversation that there was no way she was missing the flight, and he believed her. Something about the certainty and toughness in her voice. She’d sounded like a woman to be reckoned with.

  Less than a mile away, the helicopter was slowing to make its descent to the landing pad when a small puff of smoke billowed from the right turbine engine on the helicopter’s roof.

  Locke’s jaw dropped open, and he said, “What the hell?” Then he realized with horror what was about to happen. An electric shiver shot up his spine.

  “Did you see that?” Dietz said, his voice ratcheting up an octave.

  Before Locke could reply, an explosion tore through the engine, causing chunks of metal to rip backward through the tail rotor.

  “Holy shit!” Dietz yelled.

  Locke was already in motion. “They’re going down!” he shouted. “Come on!”

  He leaped onto the landing pad and dashed toward the opposite side. Dietz chased after him. Like a thunderclap after a distant lightning strike, the sound of the blast boomed seconds after the actual explosion. As he pounded across the center of the pad’s huge H, Locke watched the shocking destruction of the Sikorsky.

  Two blades of the tail rotor were torn off, and the remaining blades beat themselves to death against the tail section of the helicopter. The powerful centrifugal force of the still-intact main rotor began to spin the helicopter in a tight spiral.

  Locke’s brain was screaming at him to do something, but there was no way for him to help them. He skidded to a halt at the edge of the platform, where he had a full view of the chopper. Dietz stopped next to him, panting with exertion.

  The Sikorsky didn’t immediately dive into the ocean. Instead, the tail swung around in a circle as the helicopter plunged downward. Only an expert pilot could control such a mortally crippled helicopter.

  There was a flicker of hope. If the Sikorsky didn’t hit too hard, the passengers might have a chance of getting out alive.

  “Those guys are dead,” Dietz said.

  “No, they’re going to make it,” Locke said, but he sounded less convinced than he wanted to.

  By the time it had dropped several hundred feet, the helicopter’s forward motion had stopped. Just before it splashed into the water, it tilted, and the main rotor blades churned the water like a egg beater until they were ripped apart. The Sikorsky came to rest on the ocean surface starboard side up.

  “They’re trapped inside!” Dietz cried.

  “Come on,” Locke said to himself, picturing Dilara Kenner’s smiling face. His jaw were clenched so tightly, he thought his teeth might crack. “Come on! Get out of there!”

  As if in reply, the door of the rapidly sinking helicopter slid open. Four people in bright yellow survival suits jumped out into the water. Only four.

  Dietz pointed his flashlights at the floundering chopper and asked, “Where are the rest of them?”

  Locke was shouting now. “Get out of there!”

  The nose of the Sikorsky dipped below the water level, where it was bashed by the waves. Water flooded through the open door. The tail pointed straight up unto the air and then disappeared beneath the waves.

  Locke kept staring at the place where the chopper went under. Each passing second without seeing the other passengers stretched for an eternity.

  Then when it seemed l
ike they couldn’t possibly make it to the surface alive, three more survival suits popped up and bobbed on the waves. Seven survivors. With five passengers and two pilots, that meant seven for seven. They all made it.

  Locke clapped his hands together, and yelled, “Yes!” He slapped palms with Dietz, who was grinning from ear to ear.

  “Those lucky sons of bitches!” Al yelled, staring at the people floating in the water.

  Locke shook his head at their good fortune. He’d seen the results of a couple of helicopter crashes in Iraq. No survivors in either of them. But for the Sikorsky passengers, it wasn’t over yet.

  “That water must be freezing,” he said. “They won’t last long, even with the survival suits.”

  Dietz’s grin disappeared. “I’m sure Finn’s on the phone with the Coast Guard by now…”

  Locke cut him off. He could feel the time pressure already. “They’re too far away. Remember the fog?”

  “Then how do we get them out?” he asked. “You mean they lived through the crash, but they’re going to die in the water?”

  “Not if I can help it.”

  Locke knew he was the only one on board Scotia One with expertise in aviation disasters. He had to convince the rig manager, Roger Finn, that they couldn’t wait for the Coast Guard to send a rescue chopper. That might be tough since Locke had been hired by the platform’s parent company and Finn barely tolerated his presence on the rig.

  “Keep an eye on them,” Locke said to Dietz and sprinted back across the landing pad in the direction of the stairs.